


the miya inn

by inattention



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Background Poly, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Realism, basically just sakusa going to a magical inn meant to cure his heartbreak, gratuitious mentions of food, no beta we die like men, one sided ushisaku, side sunaosaaka, side ushiten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25782394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inattention/pseuds/inattention
Summary: “Oh, well, this is great. None of this is the place I’m thinking about.” Komori says between bites of cake. “Here, I have the pamphlet.”It’s telling of both of their obstinacy that they’ve both managed to hold strong—Kiyoomi, for that ridiculous list of eighty-six conditions, all written in his neat handwriting in bullet points; and Komori, of course, for being able to find a loophole.“It’ll be fun,” his cousin assures him, pushing the paper into his hands.He looks down at the brochure. He frowns.Welcome to the Miya Inn.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 25
Kudos: 92





	1. take a trip into my garden

**Author's Note:**

> hi ive been sitting on this since the beginning of may like a hen waiting for an egg to hatch and im still not completely satisfied with it which is basically why im agonizing on whether or not it's a good idea to be posting it but here we are
> 
> this story is kinda my firstborn child, considering the amount of time i spent crying over it before abandoning it for a while to take care of my other wips,,, so i hope it's a decent read ^^
> 
> the miya inn is basically a magical business made to help people dealing with grief (i just finished watching camp sawi and howl's moving castle when i first started writing this ok don't judge me) 
> 
> warnings (point out any that I've missed and i will add it!):  
> \- descriptions of anxiety, panic attacks, and intrusive thoughts

_[how it starts—]_

Kiyoomi is sixteen.

He supposes that as far as sixteen-year-olds go, he could be much worse. He could be playing hooky or smoking pot or having unprotected sex in the school toilets.

Honestly, all things considered, his life is fairly normal.

Every morning, he wakes up at the exact same time for school. He makes his bed. He showers. He washes his hands, _twice,_ after breakfast. He wears his surgical mask. He walks to school with his cousin, who is popular enough for girls to ask Kiyoomi all the time if he could give him their love letters. He aces his tests and plays volleyball and he lives well, even when he has very minimal social interaction with people his age beyond his cousin’s pestering.

Well. He does have one exception.

Miyagi’s best, Wakatoshi- _kun_ , sends him letters that come every few weeks in the mail, stamped with the purple eagle crest and squirted with fragrance that makes the envelopes smell like roses.

Wakatoshi- _kun_ has never fancied himself as eloquent nor did he feel the need to invest himself in the semantics of poetry, so the sophisticated structure of the letters never quite matches who he is as a person—someone else is probably being asked to transcribe them for formality’s sake.

Still, the dried flower petal he finds in the bottom of the envelope every time an invitation arrives is definitely Wakatoshi’s doing and probably also a sign of his favor.

Today, it’s an azalea petal, the lingering sweetness whispering _take care_ at him even as he slips it into his pocket for safekeeping.

His parents are getting used to the invitations from the Ushijima family’s young master. In fact, they think that it’s great that he’s making connections with children with equally notorious names.

His siblings, however, are another story. They wiggle their eyebrows knowingly at him, like they were in on an inside joke he had no hope of deciphering.

“You wouldn’t go through this much trouble for just anyone,” Kaoru- _nii_ teases, poking at his sides even as the letter is neatly refolded and returned to its envelope. “Look at you, being considerate of others!”

He pulls out stationery from a drawer, already drafting the reply he will be sending out as confirmation of his attendance in his head.

“You must be very fond of this Wakatoshi-kun.” Kyou- _nee_ says, pulling Kaoru- _nii_ away with a manicured hand.

She is not completely wrong, he concedes, fiddling with the pen in his hand. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have indulged such spoiled notions, but he’s never truly been able to refuse anything Wakatoshi asked of him.

It’s not completely unwarranted. They’ve sat together every year during galas, both dressed in starched fabric that didn’t quite suit them yet, stern-faced little boys ready to take the world in their privileged palms. They stayed close even during the extra classes they took as children with abilities.

Besides, Kiyoomi likes him, which is more than he can say about his opinions on most people, so he goes, even if it means going all the way to Miyagi.

(I'll say it before you all have to: yes, Sakusa Kiyoomi is extremely gay, but he is sixteen and has not noticed it yet.)

Ushijima Wakatoshi spends most of his time outside, with their estate’s sprawling gardens as his usual haunt. Every time Kiyoomi visits, there he is by the marble mermaid fountain, talking to the flowers.

 _I planted them,_ he mentions once in passing. _I know them like I know myself._

There was a time where Wakatoshi-kun was stuck comforting the canaries that perched on the fountains; there was a time where he had to dissuade flowers from blooming wherever he stepped, too unfamiliar with his ability to do it efficiently; now, all he has to do is lay a hand over the soil for it to tremble beneath his feet.

His ability—already plenty impressive at fourteen, which is when they first meet—grows stronger every time Kiyoomi sees him.

It frightens him. It excites him. He meets his eyes and wonders what _do you see when you see me?_ but he never says anything.

Instead, he stands beside Wakatoshi as he kneels to survey the plants and they talk about nothing in particular, but his heart beats feverishly in his ribcage.

Wakatoshi is eighteen years old and already a force of nature. Wakatoshi is eighteen years old and he will soon be going abroad to California where he will be working towards his magic license, like he's always wanted. Like he's always dreamed.

Wakatoshi is eighteen and he will be leaving Kiyoomi behind soon. He does not know what to make of that.

“Mother is very disappointed that I used my ability irresponsibly,” he tells Kiyoomi now, his tone stern. “I did not know I could cause earthquakes of that magnitude, so I was careless. The left wing of the estate is still undergoing restoration.”

“Did anyone get hurt?”

“No. It was lucky.” Wakatoshi tells him. He rises and dusts the dirt off his overalls.

Kiyoomi steals a glance at him from the corner of his eye and pushes his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat. “You so often are.”

 _Monsters_ , people have always whispered behind their backs, _with their feet floating off the ground._

They’re right, in a way, but they don’t know the whole truth, and it is this: Wakatoshi is a monster that adores anything that was of the earth. He is a terror, a champion, a genius, but in the end, he is just a child.

That is what Kiyoomi loves most—the fact that this legend in the making was still just a boy, one who’d apologized to those he had inconvenienced with a well-meaning but not easily received _sorry I’m so strong._

“I do not particularly dislike my ability,” Kiyoomi confides. Wakatoshi turns to look at him, patient. He is so still that a bird lands on his shoulder and rests there. “Still, I wonder what it would be like to wake up one day with a different one.”

“Your ability is very valuable.”

“It is neither here nor there,” Kiyoomi shrugs, inflexible. “Like all abilities, the user's intentions matter most.”

He doesn’t say that it is tedious at best and insanity inducing at worst. It’s distressing when all you can see is the very worst about people; it’s why he avoids crowds and why he feels safest around Komori and Wakatoshi, who never feel the need to poke where they shouldn't.

Wakatoshi never touches him needlessly, even when Kiyoomi’s taken to wanting him to, a selfish desire that he tries not to notice the best he can. _Touch me touch me touch me, be selfish and do it,_ he begs without ever uttering a word, but Wakatoshi never does, never tries, never wants to, and so Kiyoomi’s learned how to love his distance instead.

“Will the restoration take long?” he asks, because he's fine with silences but he finds that with Wakatoshi-kun, there is just too much he wants to know. It's enough for him to feel like he'd run out of time before even beginning to ask all of them.

“I hope not. It’d make me guilty to leave for university before it’s been truly fixed.”

“Ah,” Kiyoomi says. “How do you think it’ll be, starting anew?”

Wakatoshi inclines his head in thought. The bird on his shoulder, startled by the movement, flies off.

“New beginnings are nice, in their own way.” He stares off into the gardens—the trees, the hedges, the flowers. When he speaks again, he is firm, resolute. “But it is not for me. I belong here.”

Wakatoshi’s no poet, that’s for sure, but Kiyoomi tattoos the words along his lungs all the same so he remembers it every time he breathes. “If you belong here,” he mumbles, looking away, “then so do I.”

“No.”

“What?”

“This is not where you belong. You’re meant to start anew.”

Kiyoomi does not reply. Instead, he lets all the unspoken declarations rattle against his teeth. That, he thinks bitterly, is the only thing you can do when the person you love is telling you of a future they see for you—one that doesn’t have them in it.

“Who are you to decide that?” he asks. It’s almost casual. He’s never been suited to anger.

Wakatoshi smiles—the memory is precious and dear in its rarity—and then he brandishes a stalk at him. Kiyoomi blinks, confused, but in Wakatoshi’s gifted grip, it comes alive, sprouting into a full-fledged dandelion.

“Would you like to make a wish?” Wakatoshi asks mildly. “They say if you blow on a dandelion, you get one.”

Kiyoomi thinks this is stupid. It’s a weed. Still, he blows on it anyway, scattering its seeds in the wind.

Kiyoomi is twenty-two.

Ushijima Wakatoshi is twenty-five now. He is big and important in the magic community. They call him a legend, a monster, a god. Kiyoomi likes that they think this because he is, he is.

Ushijima Wakatoshi is twenty-five now and so it shouldn’t be a surprise when he brings a date to the obligatory monthly gala that sponsors hold for the top magic practitioners and their families. But it is, and it’s devastating. He catches his eye from across the room. Kiyoomi hates that he can’t read it. He never really could.

It is the first time he does this, so everyone is intrigued, gathering around them like moths to a flame. He introduces his plus one. _Tendou Satori_ , he says, the syllables dancing in his mouth like the flickering of an open flame, and then he follows this with _he is my boyfriend of six months._

His red-haired beau burns quick and fast and is love in its most impulsive. His laugh is too loud and grating. His fingers never leave the spot where they’re wrapped around Wakatoshi’s wrist. He drinks too much too early and he makes inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times. And yet.

_And yet._

Kiyoomi goes through the motions: he congratulates the happy couple, every word spoken with practiced detachment, heartbreak artfully hidden into shades of apathy. He stays for this month’s set of orators, back stiff against his chair as he listens to this month’s set of concerns. He finishes his meal in small, controlled bites even when his appetite is basically nonexistent.

Once the formalities have concluded and he’s been freed of the duties that come with the Sakusa family name, he heads to the balcony with a champagne flute full of wine.

He stares at his reflection against the glass and is not surprised to see how the eyes that stare back are red-rimmed and love worn.

He thinks _I’ve loved that boy for a very long time._ He thinks _now that boy has learned how to love someone else._

He presses his lips together when he feels the realization ache and decides to think about dandelions and new beginnings instead.

That’s easier.

*

_i. the boy_

Kiyoomi’s relationship with his cousin, if he has to describe it, is one filled with ambiguous truces made under duress and a built-up tolerance for each other’s behavioral deficits.

The years apart in college have not, in fact, made their hearts grow fonder, but now they have at least learned how to coexist, their feelings a heady mix of fear and affection.

It’s true that Kiyoomi has 578 mb’s worth of clips that show his cousin butchering the classics in a karaoke bar after his breakup with a college boyfriend in his possession, but this just means that Komori also has screenshots of an inebriated Kiyoomi texting him _why is the gif I just screenshotted not fucking moving_ in his iCloud storage.

Maybe even more incriminating things. He’s a different person during finals week—the stress gets to him.

This is something that ushers respect, even if it is in its most reluctant form—this is the only reason that he tolerates Komori remaining in his space, even when past evidence has proven that it only really resulted in pain and suffering.

“Sakusa!” Komori proves his point even now as he kicks open the door to his bedroom. “I’ve missed you. How long has it been since we last saw each other?”

Muscle memory dictates that when within close proximity of Komori Motoya, it’s best for him to defend the remains of his dignity first and save all the questions for later, so Kiyoomi, who was in the process of getting dressed, grabs a random tee from his closet and pulls it over his head.

“Two months,” he replies, once he’s decent. What he doesn’t add is that it didn’t really matter, not really, because Komori compensated for his physical absence by spamming his phone with texts about the most inconsequential things.

“You don’t look very perky this morning.”

Komori doesn’t seem to be doing any better. His dark circles are purpling under his eyes, and there’s an exhausted hum to his bones that Kiyoomi notices because he’s perceptive and notices everything.

“This feels like a plot for my downfall,” he tells him, dull.

“Don’t be silly,” Komori waves off with a flick of his hand. “I don’t have nearly enough time for the planning of your ruination.”

“If you had time while you were in law school and in training for your magic license, then I doubt the validity of that statement.”

“Still as pessimistic as ever, I see.”

“Realistic,” Kiyoomi corrects, a little bit miffed. “Have the nuptials been keeping you busy?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Komori unconsciously twists the band on his ring finger, lost in thought.

He’s engaged now, to a lovely woman he met in France two years ago while in the middle of an important mission for Japan’s magic union.

Her family was well off, so there weren’t any of the “gold digger” comments that Kiyoomi’s older brother had to go through when he came home with a fiancée from the working class, but she doesn’t have a drop of magical blood in her decidedly not Japanese veins, which unsettles their relatives and is enough reason for them to dislike her.

“It’s tiring work,” here, his cousin rolls his eyes, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms defensively, “especially since every person in our extended family thinks they have a say. Like I care what Aunt Akiko thinks of me marrying a foreigner.”

Kiyoomi makes a face. Aunt Akiko’s always been meddlesome. “How is your fiancée?”

“Oh, good, good. She says she wants me to go look for a good wedding dress while I’m here in Tokyo. Don’t waste the opportunity and whatnot.”

“She's right, you know.”

“She so often is.” Komori agrees fondly. “Do you know any good designers? Elle told me there was this Asahi person she keeps reading about in Tokyo blogs.”

“I’ll ask Aida-san to forward you his contact information.”

“That’d be great, thanks. You wanna come with me later to scope out his shop?”

“No,” he makes a face at the thought of dealing with the crowds and the waiting time. Adding Komori to the mix just didn’t feel like a decision he’d make sober. “Just tell me why you’re here, so we don’t prolong things.”

His cousin only shakes his head in response. “How heartless.”

“So be it.”

That’s when Komori decrees, with a conviction usually reserved only for wedding vows or divorce settlements, “I came because I have a plan to help mend your broken heart.”

This shocks him to the point where his only physical reaction is to blink, owlishly, at his cousin; the bastard in question only snorts, “Come on. We both know you’ve been moping.”

The way Komori’s eyebrows jiggle at his reaction nearly unnerves him enough to refuse out of principle.

“The aforementioned ‘broken heart’ has been fine for years,” he tells him, cold, hands moving to fiddle with the front of his shirt, “and it will continue to be, thank you.”

“But this is different,” Komori insists, drawing close with a frightening look in his eyes.

“How, exactly?”

“Well, for starters, you’ve just met his boyfriend.”

He fumbles with the words in his mouth before deciding on: “So?”

“Don’t play cool with me. You’ve always thought the biggest hindrance to your big gay love story would be if he’d end up straight.” Komori looks up at him, lips pulled together as though keeping a laugh from escaping.

“I hate you.”

“That isn’t the case, but he’s still not with you. Come on. It’ll be on me. Think of it as my good deed for the year. Won’t that be nice?”

“Stop making fun of me—”

Unfortunately, at this point, his cousin has already stopped listening.

“A vacation!” he clasps his hands together, eyes brightening. “It’ll be great, Sakusa. God knows you need it.”

It’s a generous offer, which is suspicious enough by itself. Factor in the fact that he also has his upcoming wedding to think about and it’s going to be an impractical one, too—but then Komori had genuinely looked disappointed and—Kiyoomi is not heartless so _no, you don’t understand, I’m a Pisces, of course I care, I care too much about everything—_

This is what ends up happening: instead of declining outright, he requests that he at least be allowed to set limitations.

“Alright, then,” Komori agrees, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Tomorrow we’ll meet up for lunch and discuss it. This is going to be fun.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi replies. “I doubt that very much.”

The list is an exasperating thing, but it’s one that Kiyoomi had painstakingly drafted on his notes app during breaks at work and then rearranged by the time he got home.

On the top of the list were the obvious _no’s_ : bars and escorts and strip clubs—breeding grounds for contempt and bad decisions—but those were only numbers one to three on his long and tedious list.

There were the more wholesome alternatives, all of which he’d refused to humor because it just didn’t seem worth his time. There were even the tentative suggestions that he’d penned in there too for the fun of it, because the day that he actually downloads a dating app is the day that he shoots himself in the foot.

“Oh, well, this is great. None of this is the place I’m thinking about.” Komori says between bites of cake, tiramisu staining the corners of his mouth. “Here, I have the pamphlet.”

It’s telling of both of their obstinacy that they’ve both managed to hold strong—Kiyoomi, for that ridiculous list of eighty-six conditions, all written in his neat handwriting in bullet points; and Komori, of course, for being able to find a loophole.

“It’ll be fun,” his cousin assures him, pushing the paper into his hands.

He looks down at the brochure. He frowns.

_Welcome to the Miya Inn._

*

**[important things to consider:**

**aka, a list of things you should pay attention to.]**

  1. The ugly brochure he’d been given, with the fucked up font and the nonexistent color scheme. _Welcome to the Miya Inn—apothecary for love potions and salves for heart aches_ , it tries to entice him. It isn’t working.
  2. The shady declaration of how the inn decides _when_ you leave.
  3. Due to the nature of the booking and the ambiguity of his coming home, everyone in Kiyoomi’s admittedly small circle was informed. The circumstances behind it were kept very vague, so they naturally assumed that he would be taking a break.
  4. The mystery of why everyone’s so happy for him. _It’s because you work too much,_ was the only thing his cousin offered in the face of his confusion. His colleagues left him flowers. His parents were ecstatic to hear that he was finally letting loose and were generous enough to put the work he was meant to do on hold until further notice. Komori even made sure of send pictures of the gift basket Kiyoomi’s family sent him, with the sparkly card with the swirly _much thanks from the Sakusa family_ written on it in equally sparkly calligraphy to further cement just how happy they were with the news. 
  5. Ushijima Wakatoshi himself, the cause of his current predicament, coming over to his doorstep at the crack of fucking dawn to bring him a handkerchief he’d gotten, with his initials stitched in purple thread at the hem as a parting gift.
  6. The little that Komori could tell him about the place. They’re perfectly charming people for the most part, he’d informed him, if not very selective with their guests. The screening’s insane, but stays are usually very long-term, so it makes sense.
  7. The co-owners of the Miya Inn, both past practitioners from the magic industry with specializations on potion making and spell casting. Names: Miya Atsumu (187cm, tragically still blonde, served for five years before quitting), and Miya Osamu (187.2cm, grew out of the gray hair dye, served for three years before quitting). They put their names on the brochure too—for convenience.
  8. The fact that he recognizes them, from magazines dating back a few years ago. There was Nike—Miya Osamu posing in sportswear, cold eyes staring the camera on, the words _own your game_ emblazoned behind him—and there was Uniqlo with Miya Atsumu, hands in his pockets and tongue out to lick at his lower lip, a crowd favorite even with his hair bleached that ugly shade of blonde. They caused an uproar in the magic community for a while—they were prodigies in energy exorcism even without an influential family backing them up.
  9. The old story of Miya Osamu, professional potioneer, leaving the scene first at eighteen due to what he termed “conflict of interests” and opening the inn—then just a bed and breakfast—shortly thereafter. The old story of how Miya Atsumu, the archetype of the perfect exorcist, followed in his brother’s footsteps a mere twenty-four months after.
  10. The Miya Inn makes enough bank for both of them to live comfortably—the years of publicity probably helps some in that area—but they weren’t dealing in exorcisms, and Kiyoomi was under the impression that Miya Atsumu breathed to cast spells.



He’d certainly acted like it, in the articles following the scandal that was him quitting.

But then again, Kiyoomi has been wrong before.

*

  
  


The Miya Inn turns out to be a perfectly regular faded white building, with rusty red trim and a roof in the same color.

Flowering vines are already attempting to snake around the columns and cobwebs line the windows. They have potted plants by the entrance, probably to give an illusion of homeliness, and though they do seem to at least be alive, they do not impress Kiyoomi one bit. He has to give it to his cousin for managing to surprise him; not much could do that nowadays, but Komori’s always been one to exceed expectations.

He drags his lone luggage bag—an enchanted one that was hexed to contain so much more than it would normally, and a gift from Komori—through the entrance and pulls his arms close to himself, praying to every single deity he knows that he won’t knock into something filthy.

He’s worn his leather gloves today, thank God, so when his knuckles rap against the wood, he doesn’t have direct contact with the dusty mahogany panels. It squeaks, and the door opens slowly, very much like an old man trying to oil his joints back to life after too much time on his rocking chair.

Kiyoomi tries not to look too disdainful as he pulls his surgical mask up to cover his nose and mouth. Better safe than sorry. He could sense the magic present here, as expected of the Miya twins, but it was stagnant and unattended to.

Back home, this kind of refractory power would be looked down upon. There was no such thing as incontinence in families that ran as deep as theirs did. Being able to pass down the ability to exorcise was their legacy, their travelling heirloom; families like theirs haven’t had a child in generations who lived without an ability. Kiyoomi was no different than his many older siblings, so he’d accepted his role early on.

After all, it was back home was that he’d built a safe space for himself, brick by brick, panel by panel, carefully and meticulously. It had been slow going, as not everyone took care to understand him or the limits that came with his ability, but it had been built nonetheless, and Kiyoomi was proud of it.

Unfortunately, back home was also where Wakatoshi was and he couldn’t bear to see him right now with the knowledge that the monster that he knew has now finally been sated.

It feels a little like blasphemy to someone whose spun prayers about what they might’ve been if only Kiyoomi had realized that he didn’t have the luxury of time.

With him, he couldn’t even have the luxury of feeling satisfaction, of feeling like he’d loved him as much as he could, because Wakatoshi—shining bright, strength personified—settled the matter himself when he’d arrived to that family gathering with someone equally bright, a man who could make embers dance at his fingertips and fireworks burn in his eyes.

He remembers Wakatoshi-kun saying _Kiyoomi, this is Tendou Satori,_ and spitefully he takes his first step. He feels like he’s trying to prove a point to someone who isn’t watching and it’s frustrating.

The door swings shut behind him and he tries to combat the growing unease as the bulbs all flicker on, weakly. The space changes as soon as the lights do—suddenly, he’s standing upright in the complete dark, seemingly only held up by the red welcome mat beneath his feet.

Panic sweeps him off balance for a brief, critical moment. He flounders, frightened by the fact that suddenly nothing feels solid.

A flash white sweeps past his feet—a fox, a small one, with huge, onyx eyes—and then the world is turned upright again. He isn't suspended in midair anymore and he can breathe but everything’s changed.

Now he’s standing in a hallway with pale yellow walls, staring at another door—this time sturdier than the one before it.

A fox spirit rests on its haunches beside him, looking up at him with its head tilted.

They’re known to cause wanderers to lose their way—change the markings on paths, switch up the surroundings, make you lose all concept of time. People spend years escaping from their ruses and when they come out, they swear it’s only been an hour or so.

He feels himself go on the offensive, but the fox flicks its ears judgmentally as if to scold him. It appraises him before turning, its tail curling gracefully as it lifts its paw towards the door, as though urging him to open it.

 _Go on, then,_ it seems to challenge.

So he does.

  
  


He knows beginnings are pivotal.

Still, he doesn’t know that his would begin with the cinematographic potential you’d expect from a Ghibli film—he would probably appreciate it more if he didn’t worry for the budget needed to fully economize something like this.

A white fox. A magical inn owned by people with pretty faces. A skeptic for a protagonist. It fits all the boxes.

As soon as he comes in, the scent of menthol permeates through his senses like a disruptive houseguest and it takes away the gathering dust on his shoulders and the heaviness in his lungs. His mother burns the same kind of incense at home and in the company offices because purifies negative energy.

The Miya twins aren’t amateurs, at least. That’s a relief.

The white fox guides him to a cramped little room. The lighting is atrocious but warm—the hue an orange reminiscent to the flames of a hearth. Its source must be a spell or something, because the room doesn’t seem to have any visible light bulbs or candelabras.

There are bookcases sheltering a massive collection of hardcovers with undecipherable titles lined up on one corner, long enough to reach the ceiling—a ladder resting beside it for convenience. The walls on the other side of the room have wooden shelves stocked with vials of unlabeled colored liquids.

The ceiling has random sutras transcribed on it, as well as several potted plants hanging from it in glass terrariums. They’re probably the ingredients that the inn uses for luck pouches. He recognizes some of them—chenille, golden _pothos_ , string of pearls, trailing jade.

It seems like they’re using homegrown ingredients. That’s commendable. It’s a slightly more taxing method but it improves the quality of the spell. Families with long magical history practice the same method. 

He pulls his luggage into the room, and the door behind him disappears just as he’s closed it. He does not question it. Establishments that housed fox spirits could often create space where there wasn’t any, which made it very conducive for business.

A sudden movement catches his eye. In the middle of the room, a large table is littered with scattered manila folders, crumpled up paper balls, and thick documents stapled together. There’s even an empty instant noodle cup here and there.

On the table he spots, sitting on its haunches, another fox. Its fur is red brown, with splashes of white around its muzzle, and its tail swishes back and forth in interest, like Kiyoomi was a bird that had stepped into its line of sight.

To add to the chaos, the owners of said establishment are standing by the table, using a steadily growing tower of books about philosophy as a phone stand as they—oh God. Oh fuck. Are they actually in the middle of making a Tiktok?

“Look, Samu, I’m tellin’ ya, yer not throwin’ it back right.” 

“The hell are ya even _sayin’_?” 

It’s already too hot in the layers he’s forced himself to don because of the knowledge that he would be commuting—of course, sweating was cleansing in its own way, but he desperately needs a shower.

The travel time from Tokyo to the Hyogo prefecture was three hours—by the end of it, he didn’t only feel like the world was bearing all the world’s dissatisfaction on his shoulders, he also looked like it, too.

He doesn’t understand. His tutors have always told him that at the very core of magic, there is manifestation—the belief that things will go your way if you work hard enough for it.

They told him that it was important to give out to the world the energy that you want to receive. _Do unto thy neighbor what you want done to you._ He’s obeyed just that for years to avoid any situation that could throw him off the very precarious balance of his concentration.

It’s almost ironic. Here he is, having the worst few months he’s ever had in over twenty-three years, teetering between complete denial and reluctant acceptance, and the world chooses to throw him into the fray with the beat of _Savage_ playing in the background.

So much for manifestation—that damned circus scam.

“Ya look like shit—come on, look—see, yer doing that thing wrong, you hafta—”

“Yer a big piece of shit, y’know that? I’m doin’ it right and you know it—”

The white fox is as equally unimpressed, if not even more so. It yips, a sharp sound that causes the twins look towards them bearing identical sheepish expressions.

Atsumu grabs for the phone as Osamu points a steady finger in the direction of his brother. “It was his idea.”

Miya Atsumu protests, “Oi, _oi_ , why’re you pinnin’ this whole thing on me—”

“You said we should take advantage of our following—”

“Yeah, but you went along with it—”

The fox yips again.

“Fine, fine. We’re sorry, Shin-chan,” Atsumu relents. Osamu bobs his head in the background. “Where have ya been, ya rascal? I’ve been lookin’ everywhere! Rinrin was no help at all, m’tellin’ ya.”

Shin-chan, as the animal has apparently let itself be named, trots towards Atsumu, who kneels down, his arms spread invitingly. It walks straight into his embrace, hind legs scrambling to find purchase on his shirt, and lets itself get carried in his arms without protest, like an overgrown puppy dog.

“Can ya believe ‘im, Samu? I nearly tore open the damned shop tryin’ to find ya, squirt.” Atsumu chuckles, voice warm with mirth, as he rubs between Shin-chan’s ears.

“Yer lyin’, ya didn’t even look that hard.”

“No one likes a snitch, Samu.”

“No one likes a fuckin’ liar, either.” Osamu spares a glance at Kiyoomi, his arms and regards his brother suspiciously. “Tsumu, you tol’ me that we weren’t expectin’ anyone to come ‘till about noon tomorrow.”

He thinks back to the date he’d carefully marked on his calendar and how Komori had insisted on sending him hourly reminders through text. “The receipt told me to come by today, or I’d lose the reservation.”

“I was sure,” Atsumu says.

“Don’t lie to my face.”

Atsumu glares at him and turns straight around. “I was sure,” he repeats.

“ _Get fucked_ ,” Osamu barks, nailing Atsumu right in the head with a book he’d grabbed from the table.

“We’re getting too old for this shit.”

“Excuse me.”

Atsumu turns to him then, the friendliness on his expression melting away like it’d never really been there in the first place.

“Yer a guest, I take it?” he asks, a touch hostile, moving closer as though to intimidate him. Shin-chan wriggles in his grip and snaps his maw in warning.

He steps into Kiyoomi’s personal space and it feels like he’s being dunked underwater. Atsumu is not like Komori or Wakatoshi-kun. Kiyoomi feels destruction slide across his skin like the tremors of an earthquake, an amalgamation of distress and regret, like an age old fire he could never put out.

It makes him remember how Wakatoshi paused in the middle of sipping his tea when the news broke out, the headline big and bright on the TV screen. He remembers how he’d mourned, however quietly, the loss of a worthy ally.

Magic users were rare, and exorcists with skill sets like the Miya twins even rarer still. For people like them, the need to serve runs further than passion, digs deeper than blood. It’s how they contribute, however small.

He would have understood it if the circumstances were just a little bit different: there’s a reason why he doesn’t wonder about the reasons Miya Osamu opted to leave.

In the press conference, there had been tribulation but no grief. He’d been sad but sure, answering every question with calculated ease.

He’d fallen off the grid gracefully; meanwhile, Atsumu spent all that time even more devastated than his brother.

 _Magic is our entire life. I don’t understand why he’d quit. I don’t want to understand,_ were the words in his statement; still, it’d take only a mere two years before he was making the same announcement—with red rimmed eyes and chapped lips.

He was anguished; he knows this for a fact because Wakatoshi had pointed it out, said something to the effect of he does not look like he wants to do this, and it is so rare that Wakatoshi is wrong about anything.

Osamu was present for the press conference, the silver from his hair washed out, a man fully transitioning into an identity that didn’t completely depend on offsetting his brother’s, and he’d answered every question for Atsumu, who barely looked alive enough to hold the press conference at all.

“Why’d you quit?”

He feels Komori facepalming all the way in Tokyo as Atsumu’s eyes darken, and he’s looking at him with unconcealed abhorrence. Even his brother’s frowning a little uneasily now from where he was putting away the books.

“Why are you askin’?”

“I’m curious,” is what he chooses to say.

Because Atsumu's aura is stifling and makes him think like this is what it must feel like to drown. He sees unfulfilled promises in his eyes and he knows there’s victory lingering in those well-maintained fingers, and then he thinks, with a shudder, _what is it that breaks a man so completely?_

He doesn’t waver as he stares Kiyoomi down, thunderous, which is an impressive feat considering he was still carrying a ball of fluff in his arms.

“I don’t see how that’s any of yer business, sir,” he replies, deceptively light.

Kiyoomi backs off, because he’s not a masochist and doesn’t particularly enjoy causing himself pain. He grips into his luggage’s handle as Atsumu resumes making kissy faces and spouting off random variations of _yer such a good boy, the bestest boy_ to their fox.

Shin-chan responds with a blank eyed stare and a paw landing straight on Atsumu’s mouth.

(Deserved.)

“Now _that’s_ a good boy, Shin-chan,” Osamu snickers. “Serves ya right, piece of shit.”

“Drop dead,” his twin replies, venomous.

Unlike his brother, Osamu seems to be more laidback, with a confidence to his stature that only years of getting by on your own can give you.

His eyes survey him quickly—probably to note the mask and the gloves—and then he approaches, hip checking Atsumu out of the way even as he complains, and in a perfect customer service voice, “Welcome to the Miya Inn, sir. May I get yer name?”

He keeps himself very still, even as the voices gnaw at him, whispers for him to step closer, a little more, a few more steps. He doesn’t want to, so he digs his nails into his palms.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says, “Right, we’ve never really introduced ourselves.”

“It’s not really necessary.”

“Yer such a stick in the mud. Well then, m’sayin’ this for the fun of it. Miya Atsumu.” He pats his shoulder.

His touch activates his ability, and Kiyoomi flinches at the sudden onslaught of emotions, caving into himself.

It's not unexpected, but the sense of loss is so deep it makes him breathless. _It’s all I see when I see you,_ he wants to say. _All I can see is your remorse._

Even now, all he hears is the anger, coiling tight around him like a noose, rushing into his ears and into his head. Kiyoomi’s never felt this overwhelmed before. Bile sits at his throat and he clenches his fists to prevent them from shaking.

Once again, he curses whoever decided getting a fucking Pisces an ability like this as he backs away a few more steps, closing his eyes tightly.

“Tsumu,” his twin reproaches, “stop it.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow at him, his tongue swiping across his lower lip like he was readying himself to say something scathing.

Perfectionist. Obsessive. Demanding. The voices scream. Atsumu continues to maintain his gaze, but he looks partly confused, partly irritated.

Kiyoomi's hands fight against the urge to scratch until he’s turned himself brand new. He’s always like this when the voices show up—they’re always aggressive, a scream where one might only need a whisper.

It’s too much already, to have another person's emotions in his heart. He just wants to take a nap.

With a sigh of acceptance, Osamu says, “I apologize, sir. Give us a moment. I’ll get the keys to yer room and then you’ll be on yer way. Tsumu, go get his stuff.”

Atsumu snorts and lets the fox clamber onto his shoulders before reaching over for his luggage. Kiyoomi does not let him.

“Sir, I need yer trolley.” Atsumu’s smile is stiff. “If you’d just—” 

“It’s alright. I can handle this myself.”

“Congratulations then or whatever, but why don’t’cha let me do my job instead?” 

“I said it’s alright,” Kiyoomi repeats, fighting to keep the irritation off his voice.

Kiyoomi feels it before Atsumu even speaks—a vexing itch at the bottom of his spine, a scratching behind his ear, the ghost of touch on his knuckles. It makes him want to vomit.

“Yer the one who came in here pickin’ a fight,” Atsumu gripes. “Why are ya actin’ like I’m in the wrong here?”

“Don’t come near me,” he snaps back, disdainful; he’s aware that he’s not making the best impression, so he tries again.

“Just. Please, can you just show me to my room,” he says more than asks. Atsumu purses his lips, as though not sure whether he should.

Osamu makes the decision for him.

“Tsumu, catch,” Osamu tosses it to his direction and Atsumu snatches it out of midair without so much as a glance. “Ah, Sakusa-san, this is our library. Yer welcome to visit—it’s cleaner most days, I promise.”

He nods. Atsumu whistles to turn Kiyoomi's attention to him, pointing a thumb towards the corridor.

“I’ll be the one showin’ ya to yer room, Omi-kun,” he says. Kiyoomi throws him a nasty look at the nickname and Atsumu only smiles playfully at him, the tilt of his lips mischievous and cloying. “Can I call ya Omi-kun?”

“No.”

“Great, Omi-kun. Nice to meet’cha. Come on, just follow me.”

The fox does not look too happy about getting jostled. It growls like a warning, and nips at Miya’s nose. He laughs, and the foreboding feeling in Kiyoomi’s spine increases.

“Calm down, Shin-chan, m’not gonna drop ya,” he says to the fox, who manages to look aggravated. “What? You like hangin’ out with Rinrin and Samu more than me?”

The fox growls deep in its throat. 

“Ya don’t mean that.” Atsumu drops a kiss on the fox’s head. 

Shin-chan turns away, climbing up and making itself comfortable on Atsumu’s shoulder, its tail wrapping around his neck. Its onyx golden eyes stare passively into Kiyoomi’s own, reminding Kiyoomi of an all knowing deity.

“So, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, deceptively charming, “why did ya need to come all the way here?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer; instead, he keeps his eyes on the wall.

“Because, y’know, I checked up on everythin’ I could get my hands on ‘bout’cha, but the Internet doesn’t say much. Yer quiet, like a little mouse.” Atsumu doesn’t seem to care about Kiyoomi’s rising irritation or the fact that they’ve been rounding the same corners of his never-ending hallway. “Ya must like yer privacy. Didja pay the journalists to stay out of yer shit?”

“There isn’t anything to stay out of,” Kiyoomi replies, because it’s true.

He’s been careful all his life—made sure to keep his health perfect, his dates private, and his every tryst safe and impersonal.

“Now that’s just no fun at all.”

They turn at another corridor, but it looks the same as the one before it. Kiyoomi frowns. This place didn’t look this big from the outside, but the fox spirits probably make it so that it’s difficult to navigate, though he’s not sure why.

Atsumu notices. _Of course_ he does—Kiyoomi wants to roll his eyes. “It’s to make sure thatcha won’t leave before yer time.”

Kiyoomi frowns behind his mask. “That’s dubious.”

“You have a point, but you signed up for it, and it’s plenty effective. See, the thing with grief that makes it so hard to deal with is ‘cause people hate to confront it.”

“So the point of this is to force them through it?”

“Pretty much. It’s really only a matter of time after that. Besides, you’ll never be ready, not really, there’s always gonna be somethin’ stoppin’ ya. That’s why there was a waiver, and that’s why we needed your explicit consent. The spell only works with those conditions, but it works well.”

“I see.”

His gaze is faraway. Kiyoomi wonders how many people he’s seen just like him walk through their doors—maybe even in states worse.

How many people have come in the snow with red rimmed eyes and pouts on their mouths, with engagement rings they couldn’t throw away held tight in their fists, with divorce papers pushed deep in their purses, and photographs of dead family members kept safe in their pockets?

“There’d usually be other people here too, but ya came at a weird time, so yer alone for now. That’s not gonna last long, I think.”

“What, does angst have an off season?”

“Well, there ain’t any patterns, if that’s what yer askin’, but summer’s not a good time for business. Everyone’s goin’ out to the beach, playin’ in the sand, wearin’ bikinis. Who really wants to be single then, eh?”

Kiyoomi only rolls his eyes.

“Ah, but there’s somethin’ ‘bout the cold that makes it prime time for dumpin’, so we usually get our business then. February—it’s loaded around that time too, what with Valentines’ Day and all. People hate to be reminded that other people are happy, that's what I think, 'cause Christmas and New Year also gets plenty crowded.”

He stops walking once they’re in front of a door with a golden metal plate molded into a number four nailed on the wood.

“Here’s yer room. There’s no way out of these hallways if yer still not due to leave, so ya need to ring the line if ya need to go out unless ya want to look like an actual dumbass.”

“Okay,” he says in acknowledgement. Atsumu bristles, but he spares himself the trouble of starting a fight and smiles instead.

“Have a good night, Omi-kun. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” 

When Kiyoomi turns his head to return the sentiment, he sees an apparition of a woman floating behind Atsumu, all wisps and fog, arms looped around his neck protectively and chin on his shoulder. Her face is undecipherable, but she feels hostile.

He’s used to this. Manifestations appear from time to time, and sometimes they even act like they would have in life. The woman tightens her hold on Atsumu as Kiyoomi tries to ascertain her motives with his ability and then she looks up. Big eyes. A small, button nose. A jack-in-the box smile.

He averts eye contact and drags his suitcase to his room. He hears the woman’s laughter as he does.

*

**komori**

so

how is it

**you**

ok

**komori**

is that all?

man, you’re boring

**you**

what do you want me to say

**komori**

idk

smth more substantial maybe

how am i supposed to gloat when this is the material you give me

**you**

you’re a horrible relative

**komori**

im related to you

what did you expect

**you**

touché

my ability

one of the twins touched me and it got activated

**komori**

oh?

**you**

are u gonna yell at me for not telling him that i can feel everything he's feeling when he's in close proximity now

**komori**

now that u mention it

u should tell him that

it’s unprofessional and invasive otherwise

**you**

fine

**komori**

ok good

anyway back to more pressing matters

what’d u find out

**you**

hes a real nuisance

**komori**

???

so???

what’s the verdict

**you**

too much trouble than hes worth

saw a manifestation

**komori**

it’s been a while since that happened

must be serious shit

which one is it, by the way

**you**

the blonde one

**komori**

come on say his name

**you**

the manifestation was vivid

saw her face, heard her

**komori**

oh yikes!!! 

does this call for an exorcism

is it a spirit

**you**

no

yk i dont see ghosts

my ability doesn’t work that way

**komori**

ik

still feels sus tho

oh shit

got to talk to the wedding planner tmrw so

im hitting the sack early

gn

ily

**you**

gn

**komori**

is that all

**you**

… 

ily2


	2. grow as we go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Omi-kun, ya know what love is, don’tcha?”
> 
> “Of course I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- mentions of infidelity, though it's not from the main/supporting cast; more of a reason why another guest has taken residence in miya inn

A sharp ringing sound drags him out of bed and nearly provokes him into ripping the telephone wire off its socket. There’s light shifting through the blinds—the gentle commencement of heat before it turns vengeful—so it’s probably still early morning, which gives him unbearable amounts of irritation.

“What,” he demands once he’s put the telephone to his ear.

What he gets in response is an amused cackle and then Atsumu’s voice comes, loud and cheerful, “Not a mornin’ person, huh, Omi-kun?”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Breakfast will be ready in around twenty minutes—we’ll send Shin-chan to come fetch you by then! If yer still not awake by then, he’ll drag ya down here whether yer dressed or not.”

He thinks about the options. There isn’t a lot, so with a put-upon little sigh, he says, “Make it thirty, and we have a deal.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Omi-kun,” Atsumu sounds like he’s smiling. He probably is. Kiyoomi feels an unholy amount of rage. “Fine. Thirty minutes. No more, no less.”

The dial tone follows, and Kiyoomi blinks.  
The room he’s staying is small and mostly bare, aside from the necessities—a nightstand with a lamp, and the promised telephone, along with a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. He’s afforded a great view of the inn’s garden from the large window above his headboard—a messy, scrawling little space that Wakatoshi would’ve loved, with eggplants and tomatoes and what looks like an old mango tree, a wooden swing set hanging on to one of its branches.

He does what he always does. He takes sheets off the bed, along with the pillow cases and the blankets; he replaces it with his own that he’s just tucked away in his super convenient trolley—one that Komori paid someone too much money to hex. Still, it was a thoughtful gift. Komori’s always been like that, despite how much he actually enjoys riling Kiyoomi up.

As if on cue, his phone lights up with a message from his cousin. A well-meaning _give the place a chance, won’t you?_ He thinks of the ghosts residing in these walls—how much grief have these four corners seen?

He sighs. It’s not the time. He should be getting ready.

  
There’s a scratching on his door that turns out to be Shin-chan, so turns out his days must start bright and early now. They’re down the hallway without a moment’s delay—the fox’s fluffy little tail swishing back and forth as he walks.

They’re still burning rosemary in the living room—Kiyoomi’s reminded of how his mother thoughtfully added the essence into his candles because he knew Kiyoomi was shit at waking up and even worse at functioning—and the scent drifts into the kitchen where Atsumu is already waiting, seated on the tatami flooring with another fox on his knee as he flips through a questionable looking tabloid.

A _horigotatsu_ is in the centre of the room, shuddering under the weight of the dishes. The breakfast laid out in front of him is impressive—it’s the traditional Japanese breakfast on round trays, one that reminds him of home. Laid out meticulously are the bowls of rice, and assortment of pickled vegetables, grilled fish, and miso soup. He spies _wakame_ and green onion floating in one of the bowls and his stomach grumbles.

“Hungry, Omi-kun?” Atsumu grins, looking up from the magazine, jostling the fox on his knee with the sudden movement.

“Miya,” he responds diplomatically, because he was raised correctly.

“You can call me Atsumu, Omi-kun. Really.” Atsumu gestures to the empty seats, acting the part of the noble host. “Sit down. I don’t bite.”

Kiyoomi certainly doubts that, but he folds himself down to take a seat anyway, hands folded on his lap and spine straight.

“’Samu’s in the kitchen. We can eat in a while.” Atsumu says, leaning forward and resting his cheek on the fist he’s been propping on the table. “Had a good night’s sleep? You look absolutely lovely this morning.”

Kiyoomi knows that he does not. He never looks good in the mornings, and he tries to demonstrate with his eyebrows—the only visible part of his face due to the mask—just how much he dislikes him. It doesn’t work, because Atsumu only continues talking.

The fox on his knee seems to have taken the hint though, because it growls, more of a snap petulant noise than anything else, and Atsumu rolls his eyes, before pushing the animal off him in one swoop, causing the fox to fumble and then land, unhurt, on the flooring.

The wooden screen behind Atsumu is pulled to the side—and out comes Osamu, wearing an apron and a hair net. It’s surreal. The apron is pastel, with small white foxes sewed on the hem and his name stitched gracefully on the left breast. A gift, probably.

The fox’s attention is then diverted, as it scrunches its nose at Atsumu and wanders instead to Osamu’s feet, movements languid.

Noticing Kiyoomi’s pinched eyebrows and probably also his desire to call for animal services, Atsumu winces. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“I really doubt that, Miya.”

“’Tarou’s just grumpy in the mornin’ and without ‘Samu lookin’ after him, he always gets away with bitin’ me.”

“Still not a valid reason.”

“Ya don’t have to believe me, Omi-kun, but ‘Tarou and I have our dynamic. Our hierarchy, so to speak.”

Osamu’s comments, wry, from where he was managing the plates on the kitchen counter: “Yeah, and he always wins.”

“Shut yer mouth, ‘Samu.”

He’s way too chipper for whatever time this is. Kiyoomi doesn’t trust any morning person, so he squints at him. “Fine,” he replies suspiciously.

Atsumu remains pleasantly oblivious, his hands moving towards one of two empty glasses on the table. “Coffee, tea, or juice?”

“I don’t want anything,” he replies, because he needs the coffee, god knows he does, but he also needs to be able to function throughout today without a headache. “I’m just … going to get water.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, taking a glass from the table, and passing it to him. The second Kiyoomi touches it, the glass fills up seemingly by itself.

He looks at it in surprise for one second before turning to Atsumu, whose grin has taken a smug edge.

“I put charms on everythin’ in this kitchen. It’s self-sustainin’. Your cousin put down that yer really finicky ‘bout this sort of thing, so don’t worry. I washed that glass twice.”

“Thank you,” he tells him. Atsumu only watches as he pulls down his face mask and downs his water in three gulps. He doesn’t look like he was in a rush to say anything, and neither was Kiyoomi, so when Osamu approaches them, it’s a relief.

“Here ya go,” he slides one over Kiyoomi’s side of the table. “There’s umeboshi in yer onigiri. It said in yer form that it was yer favorite food, so I figured why not? Welcome and everythin’.”

He stares at the plate, picking at his brain for the best way he can refuse: _I can’t eat this, it’s had too much contact with your hands, the umeboshi was thoughtful, but I don’t trust you enough-_

“Well, if ya can’t finish it,” Atsumu cuts in, “I always have extra room.”

“No kiddin’, shit pig,” Osamu turns around to hang his apron on a hook and then he pushes his hairnet into its front pocket.

There’s always some sort of art that comes with feeding yourself. The twins aren’t very sophisticated eaters, that’s for sure, but they make it look like they’re absolutely starving for something that could never truly be satiated. They shovel everything in their mouths, impartial; Atsumu even pulls his knee up the chair as he eats, and Osamu rests his elbows on the wood.

His mother would have an aneurysm. She was very strict about how legacy magic user families were supposed to act and how every decision made it life affects your technique. She wouldn’t have approved of him meeting them, but then again, the Miya twins didn’t have connections or the information the way Kiyoomi did and stories like that often strum at her heartstrings.

“Maybe we should start talkin’ about the order of business.” Atsumu suggests, his mouth half full. Kiyoomi doesn’t even look up from where he was finishing up his meal. Back home, they weren’t supposed to talk during mealtimes. “We apologize about how things were yesterday. Summer’s dry as fuck, so that’s why we weren’t cleaned up yesterday. ‘Samu gets lazy.”

“Oi,” Osamu rebukes around the food in his maw. Of course they talk with their mouths full. “It’s not like you do any work around here.”

“I do. I wash the clothes and water the plants.”

“We all do that, yer not special.”

“Look—”

Shin-chan taps on the wood on the table as though to remind them to focus.

Atsumu sighs. “That bein’ said—this place isn’t beginner friendly at all. Everythin’ here is legal, ‘course,” at this, he points to the certificate on the far wall stating the magic department legally binding work permit, “but none of it’s easy.”

“It’s all’ cause of ‘Tsumu,” Osamu snarks, “it didn’t use to be so strict, but he said he didn’t like caterin’ to scrubs. Came in here and acted like he owned the place.”

“Ma said the inn was for both of us.”

“Ma didn’t build the thing, why would she get any say?”

“Bless her heart, really.”

Osamu only rolls his eyes, swallowing down another bite before turning to Kiyoomi. “Yer probably curious about the architecture. It’s not really that impressive. But like. Honestly? It doesn’t matter. Space is subjective here.” He gestures around the room. Kiyoomi’s already mostly figured out that something was doing some spatial manipulation, as it really felt like none of these places are real, just little boxes and chambers. “This is mostly ‘cause of the foxes, to be honest. Let me explain.” 

So Osamu does. The place itself is very real, he says, pointing to the blueprint hung on the wall opposite of them, but it’s malleable. There’s a door to the left that leads right to the waiting room, where the reception table rests and where the door to Atsumu’s room is. A study down the hallway and across from it, Osamu’s room. They apparently manage it enough so that they never run out of extra rooms for guests—making sure to pull and push them out at the most convenient intervals.

“Yeah, but the reason you get lost here is because of Rinrin. He makes it hard for people to get out of places. It’s conditional, so that’s why you need to sign over your consent. That was in the waiver, I believe.”

It makes Kiyoomi balk. The fox sits itself upright, looking awfully pleased with itself for someone with the name Rinrin, and it observes him, almost thoughtfully.

“Hey Omi-kun?” Atsumu calls. “How long ya reckon ya need’a stay here? Wanna bet?”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, too polite to speak with his mouth full.

Osamu looks at Kiyoomi—he looks very much like a man whose spent too much time with his brother to ever believe in merciful deities.

“I don’t care what you do,” he concedes, before standing up, “I’m gonna get the dessert out. Gotta make sure our guest’s gets his money’s worth.”

Kiyoomi, against his better judgment, watches him go. Osamu doesn’t talk a lot, but there’s something to him that pulls people in. A gravitas to the way he speaks, maybe.

Atsumu seems to notice how his eyes linger for far too long on his brother’s back. “There’s a rule you know,” he informs him, blasé, licking off the rice from his chopsticks, “here, you can’t fall in love.”

Kiyoomi swivels to his direction, mouth pressed into a tight line. It must be common, he thinks. They’re conventionally attractive people dealing with people at their most vulnerable. It must be something that happens often. Still, he doesn’t plan on adding to the numbers.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he informs him sharply.

Atsumu’s solicitous stare makes him wonder if he’s misunderstood. The click clack of silverware ceases. Everything is still.

“Listen,” he fiddles with his silver earring. “People like him a lot. Rinrin’s a jealous little shit, so it causes trouble.”

Rinrin apparently does not like this claim. He jumps on Atsumu’s face and starts clawing; totally natural, like this was a normal occurrence, Atsumu picks the fox out the air by the scruff of his neck before he can succeed in doing just that.

“Sunarin, don’t interrupt me. Anyway. Look, if y’must know—‘specially since I’ve been feelin’ ya try to feel me up –” Kiyoomi reels back at the less than ideal word choice, “—with whatever ace ya got up yer sleeve. Osamu’s charm has got nothin’ to do with him as a person. Anyway, I dunno what kind of ability ya have, but m’telling ya, ya aren’t gettin’ shit from me.”

“I have.” Kiyoomi replies. Seeing Atsumu’s confusion in his furrowed brows, he tries again, “I’ve only been getting shit from you.”

“What’s that s’pposed to mean?”

“Do you have an ability?”

“No.”

“Your brother?”

“No.”

“Do you know what mine is?”

“ _No_ ,” Atsumu says again, peevishly, turning back to his food. He shoves an eggplant into his mouth. It feels like every time Kiyoomi says something even vaguely stressful, he combats it by taking another bite. “Well, not technically. But I have an idea.”

Kiyoomi leans away from him. “Close your mouth when you eat,” he snaps, pulling several tissues out of the dispenser in the middle of the table and pushing it towards him.

He takes them and crumples them in his hand. Kiyoomi offers up a quick prayer for patience to the gods.

“’Samu and I just make magic. We can’t create it from scratch,” he says. “That’s only for privileged little shits like you who come from those hoity toity legacy families.”

“Is your personality always this charming, or am I just special?”

“Don’t flatter yerself, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says breezily. “Yer not hot enough for me to bust out the actual special treatment just yet.”

When Osamu comes back with a plate of castella, the tension is palpable. Kiyoomi leans back on his chair.

The _onigiri_ remains untouched.

*

There is no poetry nor grace when dealing with the Miya twins, which Kiyoomi appreciates. They don’t try to be complicated, which is a welcome thing for his already frazzled nerves, but they have their differences.

Consider: Miya Osamu, a poker face that conceals emotions as vivid and nauseating as his brother’s. His eyes are vacant, lacking the manic spark that Atsumu possesses, but they’re sharp, nonetheless; he doesn’t seem to care much for what Kiyoomi does, content to give him his independence.

Consider: Miya Atsumu, possessing a lady killer smile that Kiyoomi knows has gotten him out of trouble too many times, and some sort of frenzied determination that always forces him to see things through. He’s there for the smallest of occurrences, and Kiyoomi doesn’t say but a welcome thing.

The schedule he has to follow, though packed, is not so bad. Osamu accompanies him some parts of the day, Atsumu does other times, and sometimes, they’re together. It’s like what he imagines a break up camp would be like—stacked with seminars and cooking and anything that would help distract from the unfortunate reality.

Kiyoomi doesn’t exactly enjoy this, not because the activities aren’t good, but because it’s a reminder that he needs it. Other than that, it’s fine.

The first other guest he meet is a forty something woman with dark circles and tear tracks down her cheeks. Her husband cheated, Atsumu whispers, it’s the soap opera cliché—with the secretary, of all people. She’s devastated. They have three kids.

Kiyoomi knows what disappointment is. It is a hollow chaos in his chest that doesn’t go away no matter how long he avoids it.  
It’s Wakatoshi, bringing home Tendou; it’s his parents, standing stiffly beside each other like they were supposed to; it’s living and breathing without Komori, who now only visits once a year, on his birthday, with apologies.

Suffering is only poetic to those who have not gone through the same, and there is no beauty in her sadness. This woman is a wreck. She does not look renewed like a Phoenix in ashes, so unlike the drivel that Atsumu suggests he read. She looks exhausted and angry and just. Sad. So very sad.

Kiyoomi understands. If only a little bit.

During meal times—the only times they do see each other, as apparently the twins have made sure their paths don’t converge unless absolutely necessary—she eats like a bird and stares off into space more often than not.

Kiyoomi keeps his eyes firmly away, keeps his posture rigid. This woman is grieving, just like him. It’d be best for him to respect just how she lets herself do it.

“Sakusa-san, it’s feels better, doesn’t it? To have more people to talk to,” Osamu says with a shrug. “It’ll be good for you. Your cousin said ya needed company or somethin’.”

“Just what is he writing to you?” Kiyoomi demands. His cousin has been texting him but he’s been vague at the whole matter; he expressed how much Kiyoomi quote on quote needed this and shut down every other attempt to get him to spill.

Osamu’s eyes glow with mischief. “That’s a secret I’ll never tell.”

Atsumu makes no such promises. He wiggles his eyebrows at Kiyoomi and opens his mouth to say something irritating, probably, but Osamu smacks him upside the head before he can. The woman smiles for the first time since he saw her.

Kiyoomi thinks that grief is not permanent. They’ll both get through this.

  
Other guests do come, but Kiyoomi doesn’t find it necessary to remember them, but he does bow his head at them if he encounters them during breakfast. Their stays vary in length, though mostly they stay from two to five, and they come and go. The twins always take great care to pay attention to them.

There’s a frequent visitor—he comes twice a day when there’s no rain and brings an umbrella with cats all over it when there’s a shower.

He comes for Osamu, he learns. He sees them outside most days when he looks out the window to the garden and immediately regrets it, because he feels like he’s intruded somehow.

Atsumu only brings out the absolute worst out of Osamu—the swinging, screaming, squealing idiot type, so it’s easy to forget that he can be any other way.

Osamu looks at his visitor like how Wakatoshi looks at Tendou, their hands tangled together, Rinrin on Osamu’s lap. Kiyoomi’s not sure what they talk about, but the dark-haired man makes his eyes soften and his lips quirk up.

He’s in love, Kiyoomi thinks.

  
He grows used to the idle chatter of the mornings, the polite questions, the domesticity that he shares with them.

Atsumu asks him questions about his ability, then and again, somehow coming up with the most outlandish guesses while still managing to never truly hit the nail on the head.

The days pass by with time still adamant about remaining an ever moving force. He carefully goes through the motions like he’s always done.

*

**komori**  
so how is it

  
 **you**  
i met someone

 **komori**  
oh?  
;)

 **you**  
yeah

 **komori**  
tell me abt them

 **you**  
watanabe-san  
she’s annulling her husband  
she has three kids  
she’s nice

 **komori**  
o  
oh  
oh okay  
what r u doing now

 **you**  
i am cooking with watanabe-san

 **komori**  
:o

 **you**  
she’s teaching me how to cook  
sinigang

 **komori**  
sinigang?  
what’s that

 **you**  
it’s a filipino dish  
bc  
she’s filipino

 **komori**  
you don’t say

 **you**  
stfu

 **komori**  
is it any good

 **you**  
uh  
it’s very sour

 **komori**  
you like sour things, don’t you

 **you**  
yeah  
i do  
this is good

 **komori**  
that’s good  
have fun

 **you**  
[atsumu’sface.jpg]  
he couldn’t handle it haha

 **komori**  
LMAOOOO  
he looks so ugly noooo

 **you**  
ikr

*

He discovers that love, an ever fickle thing, is something this place is built on. Kiyoomi finds it everywhere: in the bento box with mayo tuna onigiri sitting on the lawn chair; the gardens, pruned and watered, though he never sees the twins in the garden to do that.

Even the birds, who land on Atsumu’s head and peck at him until he waves them away, are fond in their own way. He thinks it’s because Atsumu always sneaks him rice from behind Osamu’s back.

“Omi-kun, over here, follow me,” Atsumu says, guiding him through the fray. “Those are the bedsheets for the other rooms.” He points to the clothesline, where indeed there were sheets drying in the sun. “You might have neighbors soon. Anyway, it’s my turn to wash the clothes, so.”

Atsumu always been unpredictable—docile and charming one second, angry and irritable the next. There is no solace with him.

“Was that all you wanted to tell me?”

“A good ol’ fashioned team bondin’ exercise,” he says, “‘Just you and me, Omi! Figured it’d be easier if ya talked to someone with more experience in the unrequited love thing.”

Sakusa furrows his eyebrows. That doesn’t seem like something to be proud about and he’s about to say just that, but something tells him that resisting Atsumu is exactly what he wants, what he craves. There is something about him that pulls for attention—Kiyoomi will not give it to him.

“Now, here’s how it goes. Tell me what yer wantin’ to attract fer yerself, Omi-kun.”

“What nonsense are you spewing this time,” he says rather than asks, and Atsumu rolls his eyes as he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, sitting down on a wooden stool behind the basin that he is filling with water.

“M’asking. D’you want success?” he asks. “Oh, Omi-kun, can ya pass me that? The pink bottle. Samu makes the detergent himself.”

He does so wordlessly.

“Or do you want fame? Glory?” There’s a little smirk on Atsumu’s now. He leans closer, cupping a hand around his mouth like a teenage girl asking for information about his crush, and asks, teasingly, “Love?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know. He’s not sure what he wants. Atsumu is smiling with a glint in his eyes. I can make you immortal, it promises. _You just need to tell me how._

“I don’t have an answer to that.”

“Well, you just take yer time,” he says, “After all, ya got a lifetime here if ya don’t get to thinkin’.”

Quiet.

“Omi-kun, ya know what love is, don’tcha?”

“Of course I do.”

Consider: Kiyoomi does not know how to love with inattention. He holds the firm belief that caring very deeply for a great deal of things in order to look after them properly. It is for this reason that he’s always given every stray piece of himself into he starts; if he does it due to duty or habit, Kiyoomi can’t say, but the time he puts aside to do things right is already another epistle into the growing monument dedicated to his resolve.

Love is constant. It is there, always. It is quiet, too, and ordinary. It is too much money in his savings account because his parents are under the impression that he doesn’t notice when they deposit; it’s Komori visiting, never once missing a chance, bright-eyed and bouncing, carrying a wrapped present that gets better by the year. It’s always silence and constant and right there when he needs it. It’s the little gestures and how he interprets them.

“Then all ya gotta do is relearn it. That’s all there is to movin’ on. Findin’ new things to love. Appreciatin’ yerself more and all that jazz.”

Kiyoomi looks at him, flat, before turning around and heading straight back to the door where they came from. Atsumu follows after him, screeching indignantly about how _ya gotta do it, Omi-kun, don’t be like this—_

He doesn’t have time for this.

Turns out, he’s forced to make time because as soon as he stumbles into the hallways without a guide, he’s suddenly in a maze that he can’t predict. He remembers the waiver and curses it to hell.

He wanders for around forty minutes until Atsumu slips out of the spot where he’s been hiding, laughing at him all the while.

“You were goin’in circles! Yer killin’ me, Omi-kun! Yer absolutely killin’ me!”

Kiyoomi resists the urge to beat the shit out of him. He only succeeds because of years in the practice of patience.

He thinks about Ushijima. The home by the ocean. Komori and his smiles. They say the best way to get over something to is to learn how to love something else more.

Kiyoomi keeps that thought tucked away for another day.


End file.
